


If the Shoe Fits

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Humor, spn_summergen08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-09
Updated: 2008-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 21:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"An unprecedented run of good luck, huh? Okay, that could be our kind of thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Shoe Fits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kimonkey7 for the 2008 [**spn_summergen**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_summergen/) ficathon. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing and to mousapelli for laughing at my jokes.

"I think this is something," Sam says, holding out a folded copy of the Harrisburg Patriot-News with the hand not clutching his mug of coffee.

Dean glances at the headline and raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Bowling, Sam? Are you looking to relive those cable-free Saturday afternoons of our childhood or something?" In the weeks between the end of the football season and the beginning of the baseball season, they'd spent a lot of Saturday afternoons watching the Pro Bowlers Tour.

Sam frowns, lips pressing thin and tight; Dean's been reading Sam's expressions since he was born, and this one says, Shut up, Dean, I know what I'm talking about. Sam snatches the newspaper back and starts reading out loud. "'Bowlers at the recently rebuilt Bowl-More Lanes have had an unprecedented run of good luck since the bowling alley reopened. Marion Chester is the most recent Harrisburg resident to bowl a perfect game.'"

"An unprecedented run of good luck, huh?" Dean sips his coffee thoughtfully, recalling the cursed rabbit's foot and his lost lottery tickets with a pang. He'd had to patch up both Sam and his jacket after that night in the cemetery. "Okay, that could be our kind of thing."

Sam's got a mouthful of eggs, so instead of speaking, he purses his lips in the way that means, That's what I said, dumbass, and throws his balled up napkin at Dean.

***

The Bowl-More is visible from blocks away in the falling darkness, the bright blue and red neon sign blinking spasmodically. Except for the "e", which stays dark. The "o" is in the shape of a bowling ball, and the "w" and "l" are shaped like bowling pins.

"It looks like something out of a cheesy fifties movie," Sam says, blinking, the flashing lights washing his face in blue and red.

"Yeah," Dean answers, as they pull into the parking lot, which is fuller than he'd expected it to be at three o'clock on a Friday afternoon. "It's kind of awesome." He taps Sam's arm lightly with the back of his hand. "Can't you just see the greasers and the socs lining up to rumble out here?"

He can tell Sam's trying not to laugh, mouth pinched into a tight line, but then it bursts out of him like a strangled cough. "And you call me weird," he says, shaking his head and getting out of the car. He's smiling, though, so Dean considers it a win.

There's a white banner hung over the entranceway, fluttering whenever the automatic doors slide open and shut. There's a drawing of something Dean can't quite make out at either end and in between it says, Be a Nite Owl! on the first line, and Midnite Madness at the Bowl-More! on the second.

Sam is muttering something about the deterioration of public education and the inability of people to spell things correctly leading to the downfall of civilization, but Dean is used to that; he just claps him on the shoulder and steers him through the automatic doors into the loud, air conditioned space that is the bowling alley.

The place smells like French fries, beer, and dirty socks, and the noise level is enough to make Dean's ears hurt: the crash of balls knocking over pins, the hum of the automatic pin-setters, and the chirps of various arcade games, all overlaid with a thumping bass line that eventually resolves itself into "Pour Some Sugar on Me."

Dean is still trying to shake off the sensory overload when Sam pushes past him and heads towards the shoe rental counter.

"I'm Thom Yorke, and this is my partner, Chris Martin," Sam says to the guy behind the counter. Dean manfully refrains from rolling his eyes at the lame-ass aliases Sam has chosen. "We're with Parade Magazine, and we're interested in doing a story about the run of perfect games you've had over the past few weeks." He smiles with a sincerity Dean's never been able to match and leans his elbow on the counter. "It's just the kind of thing people like reading about during hard economic times."

The guy is in his early fifties, gray hair scraped back into the kind of ratty ponytail that even George Carlin couldn't make work, wearing a light blue (aqua, Dean's brain helpfully supplies, still familiar with the sixty-four colors in a box of crayons after all this time) bowling shirt with the name Carl stitched on the pocket. His voice sounds like he's smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too much whiskey when he says, "Yeah, it's really been something. Ever since we opened back up after the fire, people have been throwing strikes like they're going out of style. We've even got a little promotion going on--people who roll a perfect game get a pin," he holds up a round white pin that says I bowled a perfect game at the Bowl-More! on it, "and a free meal at the snack counter." He laughs and shakes his head. "It's costing me more burgers and fries than I expected."

"The fire?" Dean asks, pulling out his notebook and a pen and putting on his interested reporter face.

"Yeah, last fall. Grease fire in the kitchen got out of control. Place went up like a match." Carl shakes his head. "All the wood is oiled, you know?"

"But nobody was hurt," Sam says. They already know all of this from a little digging in the newspaper's website archive.

"That's right. Nobody was hurt too bad. A little bit of smoke inhalation is all." He laughs, picks his teeth with his pinky nail, which is long and yellowish. Dean forces himself not to wrinkle his nose in disgust. "Hell, we even saved the old sign. Could probably use some new neon, but that's what makes it a classic."

"You mind if we poke around the place a little, talk to some of the people?" Dean asks, tapping his pen against his notebook.

"Nah, go right ahead. Good for business, right?" Carl claps him on the shoulder with the hand that was just in his mouth. Dean feels his smile go tight but forces out a laugh. "Hey, I know, why don't you guys bowl a few games?"

"I don't think--" Dean starts, but at the same time, Sam says, "That'd be awesome. I mean, I don't think you'll have shoes in my size, but my partner, Chris, here, he'd love to." Sam gives Dean a wicked grin and a punch to the arm that's harder than it looks.

Dean glares at him, vowing retribution later.

"We have shoes going up to size 15 triple E," Carl says, nodding. "We grow 'em big around here, you know."

Sam's shoulders slump a little, and Dean bites back a laugh. He pats Sam's shoulder mockingly. "Come on, Thom. It'll be _awesome_."

The look Sam gives him promises death, probably in some horrible, humiliating way, and Dean grins back, all, bring it on, little brother.

Carl slaps two pairs of shoes onto the counter and says, "On the house. Lane sixteen is open. Let me know if you've got any questions."

"Thanks," Sam says, his voice sounding strangled and ungrateful. He makes no move to pick up the shoes.

Dean rolls his eyes and snags the shoes, one pair in each hand, and drops them to the floor. "Jesus, Sam," he says, careful to keep his voice low, even though Carl's moved away and the place is louder than a Metallica concert, "you've been digging up graves since you were twelve, and handling all sorts of nasty shit, but all of a sudden, rented shoes gross you out?"

"Shut up. You don't know how many people have worn those shoes. And how many of them never washed their socks."

"Huh." Dean wiggles his toes inside his boots. His socks are pretty rank after only one wearing, and he tends to wear them until they could walk on their own. It's enough to give a man pause, anyway. "They do kinda look like clown shoes," he says. Retaliation can never begin too soon, in Dean's book.

"Shut up."

"I'll protect you from the evil clown shoes, Sammy."

Sam looks like he wants to punch Dean for real this time. "Do we have any Lysol in the car? Or even some Febreze?"

"Just put the fucking shoes on, Sam."

"I don't see you changing."

Which, okay, is a good point. Dean grimaces and slowly starts to unlace his boots. He's got a knife strapped to his ankle beneath his sock, but it doesn't interfere with the shoe when he slides it on. They're not a bad fit, broken in by so many other wearers. And he's not going to think too hard about that part, thank you, Sammy.

"It's a great look for you," Sam says, shoving his own feet into the shoes Carl provided. They really do look like clown shoes, red with white stripes and laces, and Dean figures no matter how uncool he looks, Sam, with his even bigger feet (and his always stupid hair), will look worse.

They hand over their boots to the kid who's replaced Carl behind the counter--Dean pays special attention to where the kid puts them, because boots are freaking expensive, especially in Sam's size, and he doesn't want them disappearing while they're making jackasses of themselves on the lanes. The trudge over to lane sixteen is more like a mourning procession, Sam's face settled into a sullen pout that reminds Dean of his teenage years.

"Not only are these shoes disgusting," Sam says sadly, "but they're pinching my toes."

Dean closes his eyes, and for a second, he imagines six-year-old Sammy saying the exact same thing. "I'm sorry," he says, and he even mostly means it. He reaches up and ruffles Sam's hair the way he would have twenty years ago, and Sam ducks his head and smiles ruefully.

Dean slips his fingers into a sixteen pound ball, and after that, he's not really sure what happens--everything is kind of hazy, like he's _there_, but he's not really _in control_. He doesn't like the feeling, but can't seem to do anything about it. His body moves easily, smoothly, and he throws strike after strike, all his focus on the pins at the end of the narrow alley no matter how hard he tries to wrench it away.

He wonders if this is how Sam felt when Meg possessed him, as if he were a passenger along for the ride in his own body.

A crowd gathers, and he grins and waves at them each time he rolls another strike, a feeling of euphoria that is most definitely not his buoying him up.

Sam is watching him with that familiar mixture of amusement and exasperation on his face, and Dean wants to grab him, wants to scream, _help me_, but he can't. All he can do is keep rolling the ball down the alley, beautiful hook knocking the pins down like a pro. Part of him, the part that's not screaming to escape, is thrilled, like this is all he's ever wanted, and he can die happy now, because he's bowling a perfect game.

Finally, the game is over, and he slumps down onto the molded plastic bench, trying to ignore the blaring music and the flashing lights that started going off when he threw the final strike. His whole body is shaking, but he's alone in it now, as far as he can tell. Cold sweat prickles along his skin, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his back, and he shivers violently in the air conditioning.

He gets his breathing under control, but when he says, "Sam?" his voice shakes a little, though he'd totally deny it if asked.

"Dude, that was pretty awesome," Sam says. "I never knew you could bowl like that--Oh, shit."

"Yeah." Dean scrubs a hand across his face. "I'm thinking maybe I need to get that tat re-inked." It's bisected by a narrow scar now, courtesy of Lilith's hellhounds.

Sam sits down next to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. "Do ghosts work by the same rules?"

"Good question." Dean sighs, takes another deep breath, glad Sam is right there. He might even lean into his touch. Just a little. "I guess we should find out."

"Look at that!" It's Carl from the shoe rental counter, and he's holding out a little white pin and a piece of paper that turns out to be Dean's coupon for a free lunch at the snack bar. "I bet you're gonna write a great story about us now, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, unfolding himself from the bench and looming over Carl, who backs off. "We'd like our shoes back now."

Sometimes it's nice having Gigantor watch your back.

***

"Okay," Dean says, leaning back against the uncomfortable molded plastic seat and unwrapping his sandwich. "I'm thinking cursed object, yeah? It could be the lane, the ball, the shoes, or--"

Sam straightens from where he's leaning on the washing machine, where his (and Dean's) socks are being cleansed of whatever horrors the rented shoes have wreaked upon them (along with what's left of their underwear; they should probably do some shopping soon, Dean thinks). "It's the shoes, man. It's gotta be the shoes."

Dean snorts, a little annoyed Sam got there before he did. "That's what she said."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I'm serious."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waves a dismissive hand. "Seriously, I don't think it can be the shoes. The last person to bowl a three hundred was someone named," Dean reaches for his notebook and flips through the notes he's taken, "Marion Chester."

Sam starts laughing. "They gave you ladies' shoes?"

"My feet are very manly," Dean says, affronted.

"I'm sure. Manly enough that a nice lady named Marion Chester wears the same size shoe."

"Maybe the nice lady is just big-boned, did you ever think of that? Or she could be a milk-fed milkmaid." He thinks about blonde braids and big breasts, and bites his lower lip. He'll have to remember that for later.

"There's no such thing as milkmaids anymore, Dean."

"Dude, we're in Pennsylvania. It's totally possible there are some Amish milkmaids running around."

"At the bowling alley." Sam's always been able to pack an amazing amount of sarcasm into a few words. Dean considers teaching him how to do that one of his greatest accomplishments.

"They have that--what's it called?--Rumplestiltskin."

"Rumspringa. Yeah, I don't think hanging out at the bowling alley is all that adventurous, Dean."

"I bet it is to an Amish milkmaid."

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, forehead wrinkled like he's in pain, and mutters, "Whatever."

Dean crows softly at his victory.

***

A quick scan through the local white pages, and they're at Marion Chester's door twenty minutes after the laundry is done (shoved into Sam's marginally cleaner duffel, and maybe on that shopping trip they should invest in a new laundry bag, too, Dean thinks).

Sam rings the bell and they both put on their best we're harmless, really smiles. The door swings open to reveal a large black man with iron gray hair. He's nearly as tall as Sam and probably a hundred pounds heavier.

"I gave at the office," he says, his voice a deep bass rumble that reminds Dean of Isaac Hayes.

"Sorry to disturb you," Sam says, "but we'd like to speak with Marion Chester."

"You're speaking with him," the guy says.

Not a milk-fed milkmaid then. Dean bites back a sigh. He'll always have his fantasies. Then he looks down at the guy's feet and shoots a sideways smirk at Sam, whose gaze has followed his, and whose mouth pinches in like he's just sucked a lemon before curving again in that false, friendly smile.

"We're reporters with Parade Magazine," Sam says, giving their lame aliases again, "and we'd like to talk to you about the perfect game you rolled at the Bowl-More last week."

A scared look crosses Chester's face, one Dean's all too familiar with; he's seen it on the faces of people they've helped for years.

"It happened to me, too," Dean offers, and he doesn't have to fake sincerity this time. "This afternoon."

Chester opens the door all the way and waves them inside.

"It was like I was possessed," Chester says softly, once they're settled on the green plaid couch in the dark-paneled living room that smells like soup. "I mean, I've always been a pretty good bowler--I carried a one ninety-five average in my prime--but I never came close to rolling a three hundred until last week."

"You've bowled for a long time?"

"My whole life, practically. Was on a team in the early eighties--you should have seen us." He shakes his head, laughs softly. "Matching shirts with our names embroidered on the pockets and the team name stenciled on the back. Won the league championship three years running. And then Howard disappeared."

"Howard?" Dean asks.

"Howard Baer. He and Carl and I were a great team, but Howard, he was the best. Bowling was his whole life. He was going to try out for the Pro Bowlers League. He had this sweet hook that would just knock the pins down."

"But he disappeared," Sam says.

"Yeah."

"When was that, exactly?" Sam asks.

Chester shakes his head. "June of eighty-two, I think."

Dean scribbles that in his notebook. "And Carl still works at the bowling alley?"

Chester gives him an incredulous look and laughs that soft laugh again. "Carl _owns_ the bowling alley, man. He and Howard were partners. Carl was the businessman and Howard was the talent, basically. Broke Carl's heart when Howard went missing. I don't think he ever got over it."

"This is going to sound crazy," Dean says, remembering the way the ball curved as it rolled down the lane, heading right for the pins like they were magnetized and it was made of iron, "but when you bowled that perfect game, did it--did it feel like Howard?"

"It felt like _something_, I'll tell you that. I never threw the ball like that in my life. Probably never will again." He shakes his head. "You're not reporters, are you?"

"We're very interested in this story," Sam assures him.

Chester nods. "I bet you are." He rises and holds out a hand, their signal to leave. "I hope you find it--him. Howard."

"Thanks, Mr. Chester," says Sam. "You've been really helpful."

Dean shakes his hand and says, "We'll find him, Mr. Chester, and we'll lay him to rest. It's what we do."

***

After they leave Marion Chester's house ("Hey, you know John Wayne's real name was Marion." "I know, Dean." "I'm just saying." "Well, stop." "Not until you admit I have manly feet." "Like that's ever gonna happen."), they grab some takeout and settle in at the local no-tell motel to do some research. Well, Sam does some research. Dean eats and heckles the soft-core porn on Cinemax until Sam throws a pillow and then the remote at his head. Dean's okay with that--it means he has an extra pillow, and control of the television. He doesn't plan to give either of them back.

At two a.m., they stake out the bowling alley, yawning and bickering in the dark, passing the thermos of tepid coffee between them.

"We could blow up the sign," Dean suggests for the fifteenth time, waiting for the last of the stragglers from Friday night's midnight bowling to finally leave.

"It's not the sign, Dean, it's the shoes. We've been over this."

"And if it's not the shoes?"

"The sign is a last resort. Do you know what we'd need to set that on fire?"

"Explosives." Dean grins. "Lots and lots of explosives."

"Pyro."

"Well, _duh_."

Sam sighs and shakes his head.

Dean chalks up another victory. On this job, it's three to one in his favor so far, which makes the lifetime total something ridiculous--he'd stopped keeping track when Sam left for Stanford and didn't start again until after that hunt with the Wendigo, but there are too many anomalies (death, hell, time-loop) to consider now. It's probably way more even than he'd ever admit, but he's still the master.

Finally, at three forty-five, shoe guy Carl pulls the gate down over the front entrance and gets into his car.

Dean gives him another fifteen minutes to go away, and then they go to work. Sam takes care of the locks after Dean disables the old-fashioned alarm, and then they're easing their way into the bowling alley.

The EMF meter squeals shrilly in Dean's ear as Sam plays the beam of his flashlight over the cubbyholes filled with shoes.

"I think we should burn them all," Sam says.

Dean huffs a laugh. "And you call _me_ a pyro?"

"I'm not joking."

"I know." Dean pulls out the pair of shoes in the slot marked 12K. "Here we go."

"Are you sure? How do you know it's that pair?"

Dean holds up the shoes and EMF meter, which is going crazy. "I was watching where he put our stuff, Sam. Boots are expensive, especially for your giant paws." Dean turns and sees the glint of yellowish eyes in the thin shaft of light. He only stumbles back into Sam because Sam has those enormous feet, not because he's startled or anything. Seriously. "What the fuck is that?"

Sam points his light in the same direction and they can see it's a stuffed owl with shiny yellow eyes.

"Fucking creepy," Dean mutters.

"When is taxidermy ever not creepy?" Sam says.

"Never, that's when. Absolutely never." Dean hesitates for a moment, then puts his flashlight back in his pocket. He tucks the haunted shoes under his arm, and grabs the stuffed owl with his other hand. "Let's go and set some shit on fire."

"You'll torch the owl but not the rest of the shoes?"

"The owl is creepy. The shoes are a gross but necessary part of the bowling business."

"So you admit they're gross!"

"I never denied it."

"Liar."

"What's next, Sammy? I'm rubber, you're glue?"

"Shut up."

Dean laughs and nudges him with an elbow.

"I still say we should do the whole lot of them."

"Aw, don't pout, Sammy. If you're a good boy, I might let you squirt the lighter fluid."

"Shut up." Sam accompanies this with a shove to Dean's shoulder, and Dean whacks Sam's arm lightly with a shoe in retaliation. They shove and stumble their way back outside, and even the scent of exhaust from the boulevard is better than the stuffy, recycled air of the bowling alley.

They find a nearly empty metal garbage can, dump it out, and Dean drops the shoes in with a dull thunk. He sets the owl aside for after, when the necessary salt and burn is done. He really does enjoy setting things on fire. Especially ugly, creepy things.

Sam sprinkles the salt and squirts the lighter fluid, as promised, and that's when Dean feels it, prickling along his skin--the ghostly presence of Howard Baer.

Before Dean can get a word out, Howard's all over him, flooding him with a rush of impressions--the weight of a bowling ball in his hand, the perfect hook of it as it glides down the alley, a younger version of shoe guy Carl yelling, a tumble down a steep flight of stairs, and then cold darkness as Howard's neck snaps when he lands on the basement floor.

Dean is aware of Sam grabbing the lighter out of his hand--Howard doesn't even try to stop him--and when the creaky old leather catches, Howard disappears for the last time.

Dean sinks down onto the asphalt, shaken, and pushes a hand through his hair. Sam sits next to him, a warm, comforting presence, one hand resting lightly on the small of Dean's back, the other on Dean's shoulder.

"You okay, man? What happened?"

"Howard wanted someone to know what happened to him," he says slowly. "Carl didn't want him to leave--they'd just opened the bowling alley, and they were the best team in their league. They attracted business. They fought, and Carl--"

"Carl killed him."

"Yeah. It was an accident, but still." Dean shakes his head; that tumble down the stairs isn't near the worst thing he's ever experienced, but Howard's shock and sadness linger.

"He never attacked Carl, though."

"He loved Carl, and wanted him to understand." Dean leans against Sam, doesn't even try to hide it this time. "He never attacked anybody, really. He loved bowling. He just wanted to bowl a perfect game."

"Well, he got to do that."

"Yeah."

The shoes are charred remains and the owl is stinking up the parking lot with the stench of burnt feathers and stuffing when Sam speaks again. "Why now? He was killed almost thirty years ago."

"The fire must have disturbed his body, wherever Carl buried him. I think it's under this asphalt somewhere now." Dean shakes his head again. "I didn't really see that part. He's gone now, though."

"Good. Though I still say we should have torched all the shoes."

"Of course you do."

***

Later, after they've showered and slept, Sam goes out for coffee and Dean looks up nearby tattoo parlors. When he's got a list, he does a little more Googling, and discovers exactly who Thom Yorke and Chris Martin are.

Sam is totally going to pay for that.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Dean and Sam go bowling, either for fun or for a case.


End file.
